I pass through them I am a thousand miles from the city with its toil
and pain, its strife and sorrow. Worldly cares drop from my back as I
stand upon the brink of this creek and watch the water spreading
itself out over the white sand. Time and distance lose their force as
factors in my life. I have found and entered the lost lands of
Theocritus. Beneath this black ash, touched here and there with the
purple wistfulness of the passing year, Pan might have sat to play his
pipes, the Cyclops might have pleaded with the graceful Galatea. This
haze which hangs over the white oak grove, for aught I know, may be
the incense from Druid fires. Along this valley Chaucer's Immortals
may have gone a pilgriming, and in this bosky wood Robin Hood may have
trained his band. The legend that from this cliff an Indian lover on
his favorite pony once leaped to the creek a hundred feet below and a
mighty funeral ceremony was held at the Indian mound a little farther
down the valley seems to be attested both by the cliff and the mound.
Before I have gone very far I am unconcernedly conscious that I
have not the slightest idea in which direction lies the nearest road
home, nor how far I have come. But I know that somewhere down the
lavender-veiled valley the creek and myself shall reach the river at
last and all will be well. There are so many beautiful things to see
on the way that I would not hasten if I could. Life and the future is
much like that.

* * * * *

There is a pleasant constancy in the companionship of a creek. It is
always at home when I call, always seems to wear a smile of welcome,
always has something new to offer in the way of entertainment. And it
is changeless through the years. If I were to return some September
afternoon after an absence of half a lifetime I should expect to see a